


Affinity

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Desperation, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay, Restraints, Shame, Wetting, the ridiculous super-soldier carseat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The Soldier is calmer now about being held in bonds. He has been given release. He is maintained. The Commander knows what he's doing.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affinity

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4841183), but from the point of view of the Soldier. This is just a segment of that, and I'll probably write more, because I've seen a disturbing lack of that [ridiculous carseat](http://perplexedhedgehog.tumblr.com/post/128197888245/drawsaurus-sabacc-hydras-absolutely) in fic.
> 
> This fic has no redeeming qualities and the author is sufficiently ashamed of herself. ~~She's not.~~

They've been sitting in the van for eight hours, and have only just been informed that their stakeout is to last through the night. Rumlow is already restless, and the Soldier is nervous, as he is when his Commander is agitated.

They've been playing chess with a magnetic travel board. It is not unlike strategic games lingering faintly in the asset's memory from earlier programmings, and he easily wins each round. After the fourth game, the Commander switches to lining up magnetic pieces on the Soldier's metal arm.

He wonders if this is serving some sort of practice, the way placing pins on maps helps the agents to strategize. He concentrates on keeping very still, so as not to displace any of the pieces, and it takes him a while to realize that the Commander is staring at him with an expression the Soldier doesn't recognize.

When the order "Soldier, restraint" comes, the asset is in the restraining seat in the time it takes the Commander to blink. That's a critical part of safety protocol; the Soldier must get himself into his bonds at the first sign of malfunction. Refusal to obey is tantamount to a refusal to breathe. Only when he is secured in his metal bonds does he allow himself to wonder what he has done wrong. He hadn't noticed a malfunction.

Worry stirs inside him. Will this impair the mission schedule? Worse, will it result in a failed operation?

"We're fine, Soldier, I'll take care of you," Rumlow says, and something within the asset responds to his tone. He is soothed. Of course they're fine. The Commander knows what he's doing. And when Rumlow works his hand under the restraining band and deftly unbuttons the asset's tactical pants, a calming familiarity spreads through him. He vaguely remembers that this procedure releases tension. This procedure keeps him stable. The Soldier sighs in anticipation as Rumlow's hand works over his dick.

He grows more focused as he nears climax; Rumlow almost gets him there, then retreats without warning to the other side of the van, leaving the Soldier bucking against the restraining band. He lunges toward Rumlow before he can stop himself; the thick metal band catches him, and he falls back into the seat, head hung in shame. Is this a test he has failed? A punishment of some sort? The tension is  _there_ , intent and throbbing, a most insistent need, and it's taking all his self-restraint not to rub himself against the metal band. He must wait for his Commander's decision.

"Eager, huh?" Rumlow asks him, approaching again with his hands running over the Soldier's knees. His breath catches. He will not beg for it, will not push against Rumlow's hands to urge them upward. Even if that were proper, he couldn't. His bonds firmly hold his legs in place.

They hold his arms, too, although they involuntarily strain at the cuffs when Rumlow's hands find their way back in between his thighs, stroking up and down his length. He squeezes tighter and a shudder runs through the asset. He jolts against the restraints and the Commander pulls back with a raised eyebrow.

The asset will not beg. It would be disgraceful, and not allowed. Either he will be granted pleasure or he will not, but he is silently pleading, looking up at Rumlow with his eyes, trying to get his heaving gasps under control. Rumlow appraises his face and gives him a small smile. 

"Eager," he breathes. 

The Soldier's eyes meet Rumlow's.  _Please I'll be good I'll do whatever you want I need it I need it please—_

"Let's see if you can do it yourself, Soldier," Rumlow says, and the asset shifts as much as his bonds will allow, thrusting the head of his dick against the edge of the restraining band. He ignores the pressure against his ribs and thrusts harder, shuddering as tremors resonate through his groin and into his body, but he must prolong the sensation. This is ingrained into his programming: he is not allowed to self-reward. Either the Commander will return to finish him or he will go without release.

He grunts, trying to hold back his climax, head falling back against the carseat. He's wrecked, a mess, shuddering and groaning and pushing again and again against the metal, and that's when he feels Rumlow's head navigating in between his thighs. His tongue runs lightly along the underside of the Soldier's dick before his mouth wraps around the head. The Soldier's so far gone that it only takes a few strokes of Rumlow's tongue before he's gone, shooting off with a grunt, the muscles in his abs rippling against the metal ring.

When the Soldier has slumped against the restraints, spent and sticky under the belt, he notices that Rumlow's dick is straining against the front of his pants. And when the pants are unzipped and the erection springing free, the Soldier knows innately what he is supposed to do. He opens his mouth, only for Rumlow to step away. The Soldier leans forward, the same mistake as before; once again he is brought to a halt by his restraints.

"You really want it, huh?"

 _Yes,_ he wants to do what his Commander wants, he wants to perform well. He opens his mouth again and this time the Commander allows the Soldier to lick him and take him in his mouth. A hand winds through his hair, pulling forward. The Soldier is pressed back against the seat, fists clenched against his cuffs. He opens his mouth further, and this time it is filled. His tongue already knows what to do, although when Rumlow starts pulling his head forward harder, the Soldier must move exactly as he wants, or be yanked against his restraining bands.

A deep thrust has him gagging; of their own accord, his hands try to pull free, but they're held fast. The Soldier swallows, regaining control. Next time he won't choke no matter how deep he must take it. And take it he does, deep and with fervor, gasping around the length pumping into his mouth.

Rumlow moans and pulls back suddenly, glistening with spit, the jets of white spurting against the asset's face and running down. He licks; he knows to lick, even if he wrinkles his nose at the taste. Rumlow is pleased, laughing a little and swiping with his fingers at a spot where the asset's tongue can't quite reach. The Soldier slowly sucks it from his fingers.

Rumlow cleans himself off and walks away without releasing the restraints, but the Soldier is calmer now about being held in bonds. He has been given release. He is maintained. The Commander is not worried; he knows what he's doing.

However, the Soldier soon has a more pressing matter on his mind.

His physical needs are, more often than not, attended to by technicians and agents. They manage his daily functions or instruct him when to do so, and as a result, he's been trained to disregard most bodily signals. However, the one in his abdomen is becoming insistent, growing increasingly difficult to ignore, and the Soldier realizes he has not voided himself since before he got into the van.

Protocol states that the asset must wait until his handler sees fit to unlock his restraints. But he's beginning to have doubts about his ability to wait that long. The pressure is increasing, as is his discomfort.

He may not ask to be released from the carseat. The Soldier shifts in the restraining band, trying to situate himself more comfortably, which is difficult when most of his body is held firmly in place. He shifts again, only managing to press his abdomen against the metal band. That doesn't help.

Rumlow is preparing a meal in the front of the van. It doesn't look like he'll be back here anytime soon. The Soldier feels a surge of need and his face burns. He cannot beg to be let up. He will not beg.

He instead focuses on the smell of food cooking. It's probably baked beans or instant soup, something that can be easily made. The Soldier will be fed a little at a time to ensure that his stomach can handle it. Will he be freed when he is given food?

A hot spurt between his legs causes him to panic and squirm, frantic to regain control. His legs are trying to press close together to cut off the flow, but the leg clamps hold them wide. A whining noise escapes his throat before he can stop it; pathetic and ill-suited to a highly trained weapon. He's still trickling a little when Rumlow glances over, causing him to still. He may not attempt to break his restraints. 

Except the trickling doesn't stop.

When he realizes he's still wetting himself the Soldier can't help it; he panics and whines again, straining against the metal band. He tries to get his hands into his crotch, to pull his legs free, all to no avail. He's sitting in a growing puddle that's now running in hot streams down his pant legs, pooling on the floor of the van. Catching himself mid-struggle, he goes still, giving up, completely flooding his seat. He stares down at his knees, unable to look at Rumlow, as piss splatters onto the floor. He slumps low into the restraining band, but there's no hiding, no escape.

He's frozen, heart pounding, just waiting for the corrections that will follow this failure. He cannot look at his Commander; he is not worthy to look at his Commander. Shame and defeat sit heavy in his stomach as he hears footsteps coming close. He braces himself—

The Commander's hand gently cups the Soldier's head. 

He waits, but he is not forced to look into his Commander's eyes. Rumlow's fingers softly stroke his hair and face. "Guess you really had to go, huh? You're not in trouble, Soldier. You really tried to hold it, didn't you?"

The flush blooms past his face, down into his neck. This is an irredeemable weakness; he _should_ be able to control his bodily functions for as long as is necessary. And _—_ and when the report goes in about this, they'll _know_. He will lose his status as a legend, as HYDRA's most legendary weapon. And even if his handler does not punish him, his higher-ups still might. He doesn't want to think what they'll do for this. He shouldn't dread it; it is necessary, and still he fears it, wants to evade it. Wants to hide.

 _Weakness._ He's staring at the floor, shaking, squirming uncomfortably against his restraints. He  _should_ be punished for such fragility.

Rumlow's hand is steady, resting his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Soldier. Tell you what. As long as you're good on this mission, we don't have to put this in the report. As long as it's not, you know...a frequent occurrence...it won't be necessary."

Even cold, ashamed, and humiliated, the Soldier is flooded with relief. The mission can be salvaged. He can be good. And no one has to know the legendary Winter Soldier pissed himself on a routine mission. His handler will take care of him. Rumlow always takes care of him.

He nudges his head into the touch, allowing himself to be soothed with soft words and stroking hands. When he has stopped shaking, the Commander waves a keycard and the restraints spring open.

After, when his clothes are soaking in a cleaning basin, he is huddled naked against his Commander, both wrapped in a blanket for warmth against the chill of the approaching night. Though he is still in-mission, leaning against his handler's chest, he cannot help but to relax ever so slightly, repositioning his head under Rumlow's chin. Rumlow strokes a hand up and down his back, over his bottom and thighs, every so often feeding the Soldier a spoonful of soup. It's reassuring, after the events of today. Nice, to feel soft kisses on his ear and to burrow himself into Rumlow's shoulder.

Perhaps allowing himself to feel vulnerable, to take comfort in another, is not such a bad thing. In this moment, he can breathe. It's only the two of them here, and by now he knows that this will stay between himself and Commander Rumlow. No one else has to know.

And after all, with so much time spent keeping his guard up, it is nice to have a handler who can be relied upon to look out for him. A handler he can trust.


End file.
